The Miracle Baby
by VGWrighte
Summary: "Now here she was: firmly ensconced in the "Elderly Primigravida" category, with a husband who not entirely certain he was young enough for another child, a son studying to be a physician, and a precocious daughter who was (if you asked said daughter) precisely six and one half years old."
1. Chapter 1

Their Miracle Baby

Chapter 1: Spring, Summer, and Autumn of 1967

Based upon Call the Midwife, developed by Heidi Thomas

Sidebar 1: Written between Series' 5 and 6, so nothing that occurred in Series 6 or beyond has any bearing on this story, and if you're not current through Series 5, proceed with caution. I don't believe there's anything here that would spoil anything beyond Series 3.

\- - Poplar, Late Spring 1967 - -

From the very beginning, they called it their Miracle Baby. Following the heartbreaking diagnosis eight years ago, she had thought she was barren. They all had. Her husband, her son, her Nonnatun family. The weight had been crushing. But, she had persevered. She had had Patrick and Timothy. And then Angela became the light of her life.

Now here she was: firmly ensconced in the "Elderly Primigravida" category, with a husband who not entirely certain he was young enough for another child, a son studying to be a physician, and a precocious daughter who was (if you asked said daughter) precisely six and one half years old.

It had caught her surprise: the pregnancy. At first, she hadn't noticed anything at all. Her menstrual cycles had been erratic - to say the least - since early in the treatment of her tuberculosis. She often went several months with no cycle at all. After her diagnosis eight years ago, it became very easy for her to ignore them (or the lack of them) all together. Therefore, when her cycle stopped for several consecutive weeks, Shelagh paid it no mind.

Then, she begun to feel the fatigue and the nausea. She had had several bouts of morning sickness, which - at the time - were chalked up to a stomach virus brought home from school by Angela. Angela, herself, had not been sick. But, still, that was the most logical explanation.

Then she experienced the change in appetite and the change in waistline. These were attributed to stress or to perhaps even The Change. Yes, she was young for Menopause, but only the Lord knew what tuberculosis had done to her body.

It was Timothy who first noticed something. Of course, he had been away at University, and only home for a long weekend when he noticed it. He had not seen his mother in several weeks, so the change in her visual appearance was striking. He was not surprised in the least that his father hadn't noticed. Timothy spent the majority of that weekend trying to decide how to broach the subject.

Fortunately, he didn't have to.

They had been sitting on the settee, chatting about Timothy's classes. They had been there all afternoon.

The clock on the mantel chimed.

Mum looked up at it and blanched. "The time! I have to get Angela!" She stood quickly, too quickly.

"Mum!" Timothy caught her as she fainted. He laid her on the settee, elevating her feet on the arm. He checked her pulse and respiration, and found them satisfactory. He ran to the study to retrieve the stethoscope from his father's spare medical bag and immediately listened to his mother's heart and lungs.

Seeing this as a convenient chance to investigate his hypothesis, he took a deep breath before putting the diaphragm against her abdomen. He was laughing softly when Mum's eyes fluttered.

"Goodness," she commented bringing her hand to her head, before realizing what Timothy was doing. She wore a terrified expression when she met Timothy's grinning gaze. He handed her the earpieces and waited for her to hear.

She covered her mouth and nose with her hands as tears streamed down her face, she started to shake. A heartbeat. He knew - from living with a doctor and a midwife - that that meant twenty weeks or more.

"Mum," Timothy pulled away the stethoscope and pulled her into his arms.

When she regained her voice, they laughed together.

Patrick had gotten a little light headed when they told him, but there wasn't another fainting episode because they had preemptively told him sit.

Stunned and concerned, they immediately phoned Nonnatus House. Thank goodness it was Sister Mary Cynthia who answered the telephone. Within the hour, she and Sister Julienne arrived and performed a brief exam in the comfort and privacy of Shelagh and Patrick's bedroom, whilst Patrick and Timothy waited downstairs, attempting to entertain Angela. Angela didn't understand what all the excitement was about, but wanted to be a part of it.

As Shelagh made her way down the stairs and into the living room, Patrick called Angela over to him. She was too excited to sit, but stood - mostly calm - between his knees. Shelagh crouched down, eye level with her daughter.

"God has given us a miracle, Angela," she said. "We're going to have a baby."

"When are we going to get Baby?" Angela asked. A logical question, for an adopted child who knew she was adopted.

Patrick chuckled. "No, my love, we're not adopting another baby," he told her gently. "Mummy is carrying Baby in her tummy. And when it's grown, Sisters Mary Cynthia and Julienne will come and help deliver it."

Angela nodded, having full understanding of what her extended family did for a living. "When?" she asked, looking up into her parents' faces.

Shelagh looked directly into his eyes for a second, or two, before turning back to their daughter. "Christmas."

Thus began her life as a spectacle. If she had thought things had been uncomfortable when she first left the religious life, she had been sorely mistaken. There was no place she could go, or thing she could do without people pointing, staring, and speaking in hushed tones.

She knew worrying was not good for the baby, especially in a pregnancy such as hers, but she could not help herself. Being the curiosity of the community was not helpful either. Patrick threatened to confine her to bedrest if her blood pressure didn't go down.

The support from Nonnatus House was invaluable. She often attended Chapel with her Sisters. And she received weekly shipments of knitted and crocheted items for Baby. They insisted that six or seven or eight caps were required for a winter baby, but Shelagh knew they were simply filled with nervous energy. The nervous energy became all the more apparent when she started receiving ornately embroidered items of lighter material. "It'll be summer eventually," Sister Winifred commented.

Timothy called once or twice a week. His studies kept him busy, but Shelagh was immensely grateful he made the time. They talked about anything and everything from local news, to his latest lecture, to her experiences in pregnancy (he was still undecided on becoming a general practitioner, like Patrick, or a psychologist).

And, of course, there was Angela and Patrick. An eternally joyful child, Angela was full of excitement and questions. Namely, she was interested when Baby would arrive and when she would be able to play with Baby. Patrick was kind and gentle, as he always was. During the day, he ensured she ate nutritious meals, received enough rest, and massaged her feet and ankles when she was tired. During the night, he rested his hands on her expanding abdomen, and never spoke of his fears. He didn't need to. She knew.

With all the preparations and anticipations, they were not prepared when the time came.

\- - End Chapter 1 - -


	2. Chapter 2

Their Miracle Baby

Chapter 2: Late Autumn of 1967

\- - Poplar, Late Autumn 1967 - -

"Timothy," she pleaded with her son, "you are not walking all the way from the train station."

"I'll be fine, Mum," he reassured her. He was to catch the train tomorrow after his final exam of the term. Shelagh was insisting that Timothy wait for his father to retrieve him, but Timothy wouldn't have any of it. He knew Patrick was especially busy with house calls during Cold and Flu season. In fact, he told her that he was looking forward to attending his father on his rounds. He hadn't done so in several years, but relished the idea of making house calls as a physician-in-training and getting some firsthand experience.

"Timothy," she attempted to induce a sense of guilt in him. She hoped he would not want to upset his heavily pregnant mother. She did not succeed.

"I'll not argue with you, Mum," he said with an unusual amount of finality. "I'll be home in time for supper, I promise."

Shelagh released a heavy sigh. "Very well."

She could almost hear him grinning. "Smashing. Give my love to Angela."

"I will, Dear."

"I love you, Mum, I'll see you tomorrow."

"I love you, too."

They said their goodbyes and she placed the telephone back on the receiver and returned to the kitchen, to finish dinner. Angela had been spending much of the afternoons with school friends, in an effort to give Shelagh some peace and quiet during half-term. Shelagh wasn't able to pretend she wasn't grateful.

Supporting her lower back with her left hand, Shelagh tasted the stew. A pinch of salt and a slightly more generous addition of pepper later, a pain tightened in her back. She grabbed the counter top with one hand and messaged her back with the other. She had been having mild Braxton Hicks contractions all week. Of course, she had informed Sister Mary Cynthia, but neither were overly concerned at this stage. She still had three weeks - or so - to go.

\- - The Next Day - -

The trip home from University was uneventful, but Timothy was glad it was over. He was a little later than he thought he would've been, but he expected Dad and Angela to still be out. He had to admit he was looking forward to some quiet time with Mum. He didn't know a lot of men his age who genuinely enjoyed spending time with their mothers, but most men his age didn't remember falling in love with their mothers when they were ten years old and she was a nun.

He let himself into their home, not knocking, to find Mum bent over the table in the foyer, gasping for air.

"Mum!" he put his arm around her back, supporting her. She leaned against him heavily.

"I thought it was Braxton Hicks. I was wrong," she breathed.

"Did you call Nonnatus?!"

She nodded. "The line was busy. I decided to boil some water while I was waiting for the line to clear. My waters broke."

Timothy looked past her to the kitchen floor. Sure enough, the rug was damp and there was a small puddle on the floor in front of the stove. Seeing as the contraction had subsided, he helped her to the settee and rushed back to the telephone.

Poplar 459.

"Nonnatus House, Midwife speaking."

Sister Winifred, thank God. "Sister! Mum's waters broke!"

"Timothy?"

"Yes! Timothy! Dad's not home yet."

"Stay calm, Timothy," she told him. "Sister Mary Cynthia and Sister Julienne are on their way. Make sure she's comfortable. Round up the delivery pack, and prepare some warm towels."

Timothy nodded emphatically. "Of course, stay calm. I will. I promise."

"There's no need to convince me Timothy."

Just then, Mum called out with another contraction and the kettle started whistling. He unceremoniously hung up the phone and dashed to the kitchen to remove the water from the stovetop. The contraction was over by the time he made it back to the settee. He pretended not to notice her tuck her drawers under the cushion on her other side.

She gripped his arm. "Timothy, the delivery pack is on the high boy in the nursery. And get some towels, please."

He did as his mother said and attempted to regain his wits. She cried out again whilst he was out of the room. They were coming fast.

He retrieved some towels and placed some on the settee, next to her, and some on the floor between her feet. He also retrieved a bowl, for the placenta. He also had the good pair of pinking shears, which Mum never permitted anyone to use. She, herself, only used them for fabric.

"Timothy," she panted, "come up here," she pulled him next to her. He sat next to her and gripped her hand. She reached down with the other hand and her eyes went wide. "Oh, God," she breathed.

At this point, Timothy knew something terrible was about to happen. In all the years he had known her, he had never known her to take the Lord's name in vain.

"Baby's crowning." She looked up into his face. They were both struggling to maintain some semblance of calm. "This is going to put you off Obstetrics, for sure," she said. "I need you to deliver Baby."

Timothy was silent for a moment, unsure what to say or do, for that matter.

"It's right way 'round," she said. He wasn't quite sure if she was explaining it to him or reassuring herself. "And the contractions are-"

Regular. She was going to say regular, but a contraction interrupted her speech.

Timothy summoned his courage and took his place on the floor in front of his mother. Step mother. Unrelated pregnant woman. His attempt at distancing himself from the situation was failing miserably. He gripped her knee in what he hoped was a comforting manner. She gripped his hand in return.

"Ready?" she asked.

He nodded. Timothy took a few deep breaths in rapid succession, preparing himself to take a look at what he was doing.

Mercifully, the front door opened.

Dad didn't even have time to call out his customary "Dearest, Timothy, I'm home!"

Instead, they both shrieked for him. "Patrick!" "DAD!"

He rushed into the room, and Timothy couldn't have stood faster. "Why didn't you call the midwife!?"

"We did!" they returned hotly.

Dad dropped into the place Timothy had vacated, and swiftly pulled off his overcoat and suit jacket. He had barely gotten his right arm out of the sleeve when Mum cried out again.

Timothy couldn't bear to watch, but he couldn't bear to look away.

"That's good, Shelagh," Dad said, "the head is almost born."

The contraction was over and Mum reached out for Timothy's hand. He sat on the settee next to her and put and arm around her back.

"The head is born, Shelagh," Dad looked up at him, appearing extremely professional. "Next contraction and we'll have baby."

With the next contraction, Dad said precious little until a baby's cry filled the room. Timothy looked at Dad, who was weeping with an ear-to-ear grin. "Clamps and scissors, Timothy, please." Timothy got up from his perch and retrieved his father's medical bag. He handed Dad the clamps.

"It's a boy, My Love," Dad said as he clamped and cut the cord.

Mum leaned back into the settee, but reached out for Baby Brother.

She was crying. Dad was crying. Timothy then realized he had a few tears in his eyes as well. He now understood why the Sisters of Saint Raymund Nonnatus undertook this profession. Delivering babies, while the direct result of a decidedly un-nun-ly act, was the greatest miracle of creation.

"Timothy," Mum breathed, "take him for a moment?"

He nodded and retrieved the precious package wrapped in a hand-knitted blanket. He moved gently around the room as his father delivered the afterbirth.

"Midwives calling!" Two nuns whirled into the room like a dervish.

The scene they saw was unlike what Dad had walked in on, but was equally bizarre. Timothy stood in the far corner, holding his baby brother. Mum reclined, exhausted, on the settee. Dad knelt between her knees, one bloodied hand on her thigh, the other holding her hand tightly.

"They'll never believe it," Sister Mary Cynthia said at last. "Doctor Turner's baby was early."

\- - End Chapter 2 - -


	3. Chapter 3

The Miracle Baby

Chapter 3: The Evening of the Birth

\- - Poplar, Late Autumn 1967 - -

After the Sisters arrived, they sent Timothy out to retrieve Angela. Then they helped Shelagh upstairs to their bedroom while Patrick bathed his son.

Baby was sleepy, to begin with, and had completely nodded off by the time Patrick wrapped him in a towel and sat on the settee. He had been instructed to wait downstairs until told his wife was ready for visitors. He had no doubt, the Sisters were giving her a brief sponge-down before settling her in bed in a clean, dry nightgown.

He hadn't been seated long when Sister Mary Cynthia returned. She bent over him and smiled at the baby. "He's perfect," she said.

Patrick nodded.

"Mrs. Turner is ready for visitors," she said, grinning at her own formality.

He stood and started upstairs, but paused when he realized Sister Mary Cynthia had begun tidying the room. "You needn't do that, Sister. I can attend to it shortly."

She smiled kindly. "I wouldn't dream of allowing you to do that. After all, it is expected the new mother's Sisters help around the house after a baby is born."

Patrick chuckled. "Thank you." He continued upstairs to find Shelagh settled in the center of their bed in one of her flannel nightgowns. They had chosen one that had several buttons down the center. Easier access to breastfeed, he supposed. He, of course, was not surprised, today may be Shelagh's first day as a birthmother, but everyone in the house had ample experience with labor, delivery, and newborn care.

Sister Julienne was sitting on the side of the bed, holding Shelagh's hands. They were praying together.

"We beseech thee, Saint Bride, protect and care for the newest member of our family in Christ, Baby Turner," Sister Julienne prayed in a quiet voice. "Saint Joseph, guide Patrick so that he may raise his child as you raised the child of God. And Blessed Mary, Holy Mother, intercede on the behalf of our dear Shelagh, that she have your patience and strength in raising all her children. That this house be filled with joy and love."

There was silence for a brief moment, before the two women started praying the Hail Mary. Patrick moved his lips along with the words, saying them silently. When the prayer ended, Shelagh opened her eyes and saw him standing in the doorway. She released Sister Julienne's hands and reached out to Patrick.

"What's he like?" she breathed through tears.

Asking her to close her eyes would've made him feel ridiculous. Instead, he sat on the side of the bed, opposite Sister Julienne. He carefully handed their son to Shelagh. "Here's your Mummy," he said quietly.

Tears streamed down both Shelagh and Sister Julienne's faces. Sister Julienne ran her index finger over the shell of Baby's ear. "Oh, Sister, he is a miracle."

Shelagh tore her eyes away from the infant long enough to meet Sister Julienne's gaze, then Patrick's. "Our miracle baby."

"Can I see him!?" Patrick heard Angela's excited voice from the living room.

Sister Mary Cynthia must've agreed because Patrick then heard the six year old thunder up the stairs. "Angela! Wait!" Timothy called out.

He looked to the doorway to see her hopping back and forth, waiting for Timothy. His elder son appeared a second later and took Angela's hand, and led her into the room.

Sister Julienne moved off the bed, leaving room for the children. Timothy set Angela on the bed, next to Shelagh.

Angela leaned forward and looked into the face of her baby brother. "What do we call him, Mummy," Angela asked.

"Gabriel." Shelagh smiled. "Gabriel Patrick."

Timothy groaned. "G.P. Turner?" he asked. "Mum, did you even think about the name before you chose it?"

"I hadn't thought of that," Patrick said. "Shelagh, the boy's right, we can't name him that. What about after your father?"

Shelagh frowned for a moment, pursing her lips. "But I already like it." She looked at the infant in her arms. "Our miracle baby. Gabriel delivered the news of the miracle birth of Christ."

Angela seemed to ponder the name for a moment. "I like it," she said. "This way we can match. Because Gabriel is an angel, like my name."

Patrick leaned across Shelagh's legs and kissed the top of Angela's head. "That's right, Love. Mummy and I want all our children's names to match."

Angela looked up at Timothy. "Was Timothy a famous angel?"

Timothy chuckled. "No, Angela. But Saint Paul wrote to his friend Timothy about Jesus, and those letters were so important they were put in the Bible."

This seemed an acceptable answer to Angela. "Good," she said, finalizing the issue. "I want people to know we're related. They might not be able to tell, because we don't look alike."

Later that evening, after Patrick laid Gabriel down in his cot and had climbed into bed with his wife, he pulled Shelagh close to him. He was debating on whether or not to tell her.

"What is it?" she asked, sleep evident in her voice. Had she fallen asleep when he dressed and laid down Gabriel?

He didn't answer.

She turned in his arm, and touched his jaw. "Patrick," she implored him.

He absent mindedly rubbed her back. "I'm relieved he's a boy."

Her brow furrowed. "Why?"

Patrick tried to think of the correct words. "I didn't want Angela to think we replaced her with a real baby."

Her tone changed, now full of sympathy, "Patrick."

"I know," he shook his head. "But the fact of the matter is that we are not her birth parents. Gabriel is going to be demanding a lot of our time and attention and I didn't want her to think that we replaced her with a real baby. I didn't want her to feel left out because Gabriel and Timothy are my blood. This way we can tell her that she's our only daughter and not even a needy baby can change that."

"I'm Timothy's stepmother," she argued.

Patrick smirked. "Have you ever heard Timothy talk to Angela about that?"

Shelagh shook her head.

"That boy is fully aware that you didn't just choose me, you chose both of us. If you birthed a dozen children, he would never doubt how much you love him, because you chose him."

She laughed softly and let her eyes drift closed. "I did choose him." After a moment she opened her eyes and met his gaze. "Gabriel was the only one I didn't choose."

"But you gave birth to him. So all our children will know how loved they are."

\- - END - -


End file.
